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W. C. Fields
to accept charity. In the next few days Fields pondered this opportunity. Then he hit on a shift in billing that would solve everything. He would drop his simple title of "Whitey, the Boy Wonder," alter his name slightly, and bill himself as "W. C. Fields, the Tramp Juggler." In this way he could walk onto any stage without having to change clothes.
The Germans agreed that this was an inspired idea, and Fields bade farewell to the Norristown manager, who retained the balance of his salary, a dollar and eighty cents, under the heading of "severance commission." Before he left Philadelphia, Fields had another inspiration. He decided to notify all his friends of his impending flight from the town of his nativity and hold a monster benefit for himself. He paid a hostler two dollars for the use of a stable, then went to work on the invitations. Fields never slacked any chore that was likely to pay off, and he concentrated with real vigor on the benefit. Not only did he inform his friends, his acquaintances, and a number of near-strangers, but he passed the word to bullies who had whipped him, bartenders who had regularly tossed him out of saloons, and a good portion of the city's police force, whose knowledge of Fields was confined largely to his heels. The evening arrived, and the benefit went off on schedule. Everybody agreed that it was a whacking success, and somewhat out of the ordinary as benefits went. Fields juggled a lot of equipment he had stolen from members of the audience, made several speeches in which he ran Philadelphia down mercilessly, laying squarely on its shoulders the blame for losing him, and peddled a kind of punch he had made out of tap water, rotten lemons, and two quarts of peach brandy he'd found in a cellar. Then he passed the hat. The audience responded with surprising generosity. Although his friends sprang forward loyally, the heaviest contributions came from the bartenders and the police. They'd had so much trouble with him that several of them sentimentally
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